Original Review:

With so much time on his hands, this self-confessed ‘snooze-button junkie’ becomes delicately introspective, reminiscing about schoolboy loves or endlessly replaying bad comedy gigs through the medium of song.

As a show, Pyjamarama is a flimsy shambles, a jumble of deliberate and accidental fluffs giving it a delicate fragility; as if it’s always on the verge of utter collapse.

It’s all wonderfully touching, quirkily individual and always unexpected, perhaps a product of living in the hinterland of Tasmania. His folksy songs vocalise his misfit angst, with self-effacing titles like I’m So Over Girls or I’m So Postmodern, a keenly observed take on a life where everything becomes ironic. If you liked Flight Of The Conchords, you’ll love this.

And there’s a visual treat, too, in the fantastic display of maladroit physical comedy as he performs the most flamboyantly unsexy come-on dance around. This boy is possibly the worst erotic dancer in the southern hemisphere, and proud to prove it.

There are a few misfiring gags, including the over-milked false opening. But it’s a miracle that this odd juxtaposition of delicate songs and such over-the-top stage antics works at all, given that it demands the BP be both modest and a shameless show-off simultaneously. But that it’s such a delightful piece of whimsy is entirely down to his irresistible self-mocking charm.

Reviewed by: Steve Bennett
Melbourne, April 2005